


Kiss With a Fist

by carolion



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolion/pseuds/carolion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David punches Cook. <i>Twice.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss With a Fist

David has never thrown a punch in his life. So when he hits David Cook square across the cheek with his closed fist, it surprises him just as much as it surprises Cook - and it probably hurts just as much.

He yanks his hand back like it had been possessed, cradling it close to his chest with his other hand as it throbs and his knuckles sting painfully. Cook is holding his face with one hand, wincing and massaging his jaw. It already looks a little red from impact, and David wonders if he hit him hard enough to leave a bruise, or blacken his eye. He wonders how much make-up they'll need to use to make it look like Cook was never punched at all.

(For some reason the idea of people using make up to cover up his mark on Cook makes him really, really mad.)

Cook stares at him for a long moment, both of them still processing what had just happened.

"I guess I deserved that," Cook sighs, and David remembers why he's mad all of a sudden.

"I can't believe you," he hisses, all the rage and the hurt surging back up inside of him. "Is that why you wouldn't let me hear the record? Because it's all about _me?_ "

"It's not all about you!" Cook protests, but it's weak and David hates him a little right now so he can't be bothered to try and listen to his defensive bullshit.

"What did you even say when you went in with the other writers? 'I've had some bad relationships in the past' or maybe 'Dating is hard' or was it one of the other million and one standard _lies_ you tell everyone?"

Cook shifts and looks a little pissed, the corners of his mouth turning down dramatically as his eyebrows narrow and he finally uncovers his cheek to point an accusatory finger at David.

"Hey, it's not like you've been entirely truthful either, Mr. 'Never-Been-Kissed' -"

David's fist snakes out before he can even think twice, striking Cook across the jaw this time. He staggers back, swearing up a storm and David stands there shaking, his hand screaming in pain.

"That's not the same, don't even try to - it's nowhere _near_ the same, okay, I didn't - I didn't write songs about you, and put them on my album, and refuse to let you listen, and ignore you for months before deciding I finally had time for you."

Cook is working his jaw now, cringing when it cracks loudly.

"Jesus _fuck_ , Archuleta. You hit me. You hit me _twice_." He seems more incredulous than mad. Meanly, David hopes it hurts, both punches, and that his face swells up and there's nothing make up can do to hide that.

"Yeah I did. But I didn't do all that - all that _stuff_ you did to me. But I'm going to now. And I hope it hurts more than those punches do."

David turns. He wants to storm off because for once in his life he said everything _right_ , everything that was in his head actually came out in complete sentences with only minimal stuttering and this is the perfect moment to just walk away, and be on top just once... just once.

But Cook grabs his wrist and reels him back.

"Cook -"

"No, shut up for a second, let me look at your hand. I've got a hard fucking head you know, and I've probably broken your hand with my stupid face. Just let me look."

Cook is terribly gentle as he brings David's left hand up for inspection. His fingers are familiar and stroke along his skin carefully, checking for broken skin or tender spots. David braves a glance at his face and is surprised to see him smiling slightly,

"Should have known you'd punch with your left. I didn't expect it. I don't know why - I should have, but... I didn't." He uncurls David's hand and rubs over the knuckles with his thumb.

"That hurts," David says softly, but he doesn't yank his hand away or yell. He just stares at Cook, who looks at him with a serious, thoughtful expression on his face. And then he lowers his head and presses a kiss to David's bruised knuckles, sweet and fleeting and tender, and David aches because it's so familiar and he misses it and it feels like he still hasn't gotten over Cook at all.

"I'm sorry," Cook whispers against his skin, kissing his hand again.

"I hate you," David replies just as softly, closing his eyes so they won't betray the turmoil of emotion inside him.

"I know you do," Cook says thickly, in that low, serious voice he uses when he's worried or upset.

When David opens his eyes, Cook's face is sad and far away, and he lets go of David's hand. It makes his throat close up a little, and he doesn't know what to say or what to do to diffuse the situation.

"I'm sorry I hit you."

There's an awkward pause and then Cook laughs.

"No you're not." He's grinning - well, wincing and grinning because his jaw is _definitely_ turning all sorts of interesting colors.  
David can't help but smile back sheepishly. "No, you're right, I'm not."

"It's not _all_ about you, you know," Cook says suddenly, tilting his head at David.

David doesn't answer for a long minute. He needs to put ice on his hand. He needs to walk away from Cook. He needs to never hear 'This Loud Morning' ever again - he needs to go home and put it on repeat.

"But a lot of it is, isn't it."

It's not a question. They both know it. Cook shrugs.

"Are you ever going to forgive me?" he asks.

It's so funny how these conversations with Cook go. With other people, David always seems to be dancing around the subject, even when it isn't uncomfortable. It's just like people are afraid of being honest and forthright. With Cook they both just lay everything out on the table. David doesn't even know why.

"I might have to punch you a few more times." He says, cracking a grin, but it fades quickly, and he shakes his head, sobering. "I don't know. I don't know, Cook. What you did was wrong."

"I hope you do. I hope you forgive me soon."

David sighs and reaches up - slowly, unable to stop from smiling a little when Cook flinches away as if he's going to hit him again - to curl his fingers across Cook's swelling cheek, colors blooming purple and black under his fingertips.

"You should put some ice on that."

Cook stares at him and leans into the touch, even though it must hurt.

_Kiss with a fist_ , David thinks hollowly, and turns to walk away.

\--

The next time David sees Cook, it's in a grainy, embedded YouTube video in an email from Claudia that is simply titled '??!?!??!?!!!!' and captioned 'what happened to him???' in the body of the email.

It's a TMZ video, and Cook is just trying to walk to his car in the video. David immediately feels a twinge of annoyance because Cook looks tired - he has a baseball cap on, and a pair of sunglasses on, and his head is ducked, and all he probably wants is to go home and rest, and yet the paparazzi are there with their cameras and obnoxious 'journalists,’ if you can call them that. David doesn't usually mind fielding the camera or two, even though his face always feels tight and awkward when he smiles and throws up a peace sign, trying desperately to appear natural and comfortable, while feeling anything but. Cook just looks world weary, and while David can't exactly say he feels bad for him, he does sympathize a little bit.

He actually gasps out loud when Cook's face comes into clear focus, his chin coming up so his face is clearly in frame. Even with his sunglasses on, and even with the crummy quality of the video, David can see the ugly yellow-green bruise on his cheek.

_"Cook! David Cook! What happened?"_ the reporter from TMZ yells, _"What happened, man?"_

Cook laughs wearily and reaches up and takes off his sunglasses, and David winces when he sees the state of Cook's left eye. He's definitely got a black eye, shadowed and purple looking, and even a little swollen around his cheekbone. David flexes his hand and glances down at his own mirrored bruises, faint blue and purple marks around his knuckles.

_"Wow! That's some shiner! You get into a fight? C'mon, tell us what happened."_ The TMZ guy sounds even more excited than before, and the camera is jiggling slightly as he tries to keep up with Cook's fast paced walk.

Cook just shrugs a little and half grins at the camera.

_"Walked into a door,"_ he explains breezily, waving his hand as if it's nothing, as if his face isn't black and blue. _"You know how it goes."_

David has to take a minute to admire how well Cook lies on the spot, and he can't help the bitterness that wells up in him for a minute. Lying has always been easy for Cook, and harder for David, and yet Cook is the one who laid it all out for the world to see if anyone were to look close enough.

The video ends with Cook slipping on his sunglasses and getting into his car, waving sarcastically to the TMZ camera as he pulls out of his parking space and zips away.

David just sits there for a minute and breathes. He feels weird, tangled up in contrasting emotions, and not sure where to begin, or how to respond. It makes him feel terribly guilty to see the painful mark on Cook's face, to know that it's his fault, his fists that caused them. But on the other hand - it's sort of exhilarating. _He_ did that. He marked Cook. The bruises are pretty, and swollen, and there's a flash of pride and smugness and self-righteousness that comes with seeing Cook suffer on his behalf. Because of him. And then he goes right back into feeling guilty because, well, that's _wrong!_ He shouldn't feel _good_ about hurting Cook! Yet - yes, somewhere inside of himself he does feel good about it.

He focuses back on the present, and quickly maneuvers his mouse to hit 'reply' to email Claudia back. He hesitates for a second - what should he say? - before deciding that it's easier to lie over the internet than to her face, and he doesn't really want to admit that he hit his ex-boyfriend _twice_.

_'He says he walked into a door. I believe it! You know how clumsy Cook can be sometimes, haha. I hope he's icing it. Looks painful.'_

Truths and lies intertwined, David thinks to himself with a small sense of satisfaction. It should be enough to make her believe he doesn't know what happened. Claudia's too smart, and she knows too much, so she won't believe that Cook _actually_ ran into a door. But maybe she'll believe David had nothing to do with it.

He stares at the email for a little longer before finally hitting send, and suddenly wants to call or text Cook, to remind him to ice it and to keep him from doing anything too strenuous while it's still swollen. He wants to apologize and to tease all in the same breath - but David gave up that right a long time ago. It isn't his place to be that person in Cook's life anymore.

\--

Cook calls him out of the blue a couple of days later, and David has to blink at the name on his cell phone a few times before he fumbles to pick it up.

"Hey," Cook says, sounding relieved, "how's it going?"

"Why are you calling me?" David asks, confused.

He should have just hit _ignore_ , he should have stuck to his word and refused to speak to Cook but it was reflex to answer, and though he loathes to admit it, yes, his heart did speed up just a little bit when he saw that it was Cook calling. Leftover habits, he insists to himself, from when Cook _did_ make his heart go pitter-patter because of love, not because those feelings still lingered. Cook had ruined that, he tells himself sternly, and he was _over_ Cook.

"How's the hand? Did you go see a doctor about it? I'm telling you, it's really easy to break fingers when throwing punches. I know, I've had experience, breaking up bar brawls, hurts like a bitch--"

"It's fine. I didn't go to a doctor, what would I have told him? That I hit someone because he's a - an inconsiderate jerk?" David snaps impatiently.

Cook sighs. "You could always _lie_ , you know. Just say you closed your hand in a drawer accidentally or something."

"Some of us aren't as good at lying as you are."

"You seemed to have the hang of it while we were together-"

" _Stop_."

David can't stand it, the bitterness between them, everything they left open and unsaid, even though yes, he's contributed, and he's stroked the flames of this argument again and again. It's a sick cycle that he can't seem to stay away from, like he and Cook are constantly orbiting each other, just getting close enough to burn and backing away.

"Please," he tries, "just - stop. Haven't we been mean enough to each other?"

Cook is quiet for a long minute, and David can tell he's just gathering his thoughts, reeling in the dozen and one sharp comments on the tip of his tongue. He knows Cook.

"Yeah," Cook says finally, a little awkwardly. He clears his throat. "Yeah, maybe we have."

It's David's turn to be quiet, because he doesn't know exactly what to say after that. He had expected a little more fight, a little more defensive arguing, but Cook just - gave in, and it's throwing him for a loop.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we'd just - if we hadn't called it quits?" Cooks sounds wistful. It makes David's stomach twist into knots.

"No," he lies.

"I do," Cook says softly. "I do, I think about it every day. I regret letting you walk away. I shouldn't have let you-"

"You didn't _let me_ do anything. It was _my_ decision," David says stubbornly, bristling, "and you couldn't have changed my mind."

He's not sure how true that is, actually. David has always been weak when it comes to Cook. He fell for Cook, he followed Cook, he loved Cook, and he let Cook hurt him. Even when he tried to end things, he couldn't say no to staying friends, even though he knew it would never be the same as before. It's not as if David blames Cook - they were both at fault. That's how a relationship works with two people. And they were two people pulling in opposite directions.

"It was both of us," David amends gently. "It wasn't working and we knew that. I was just the only one with enough sense to walk away."

Cook laughs, dry and hollow sounding. David hates, hates, hates how clearly he can picture his face, even with the bruise spread across his cheekbone.

"You've always been the only one with sense. And here I am, wishing on dreams -" Cook lets out a breath through his teeth, a soft hissing sound of frustration. "We should hang out."

"Hang out?" David blinks incredulously. " _Why?_ "

"Because I screwed up, and I want to be friends again, okay? We were friends before, right? Before you -" maybe Cook was going to say 'broke up with me,' or 'and I were together' but he doesn't say either one of those things. "- hit me."

"Right," David says uncertainly, because he doesn't know. Were they friends? He isn't sure.

"So you'll hang out with me? Just come over to the house. No need to make it public. I promise we can order in - I won't force you to eat my cooking."

David laughs despite himself, and finds himself agreeing to have dinner with Cook and Andrew on Thursday, even though he should be having rehearsals that night - he'll just postpone them.

When he hangs up he wonders how Cook always does this to him - makes him forget himself, makes him love him again, even for only a few minutes. Because David knows that though he tries hard, he's still not over Cook. And he's falling into the same sick cycle of _Cook_ again.

\--

David isn't expecting it when he knocks on Cook's door on Thursday evening, but maybe he should have. It's Andrew who yanks the door open and grins widely at him, looking him up and down as if making sure it's really David and not some creepy-stalker-weirdo.

"Hey, great job on the black eye!" Andrew says cheerily, instead of saying something normal like, 'hello' or 'come on in.’

"What?" David asks, confused and wary.

Andrew always made him a little nervous, like he wants to watch what he says because Andrew's got this way of twisting his words around, and he's like a dog with a bone, he won't stop teasing David until Cook tells him to knock it off or else - so it makes visiting a little stressful. Not that he's really talked to Andrew in a while, which only makes this abrupt re-introduction even more awkward.

"The shiner you gave Dave. Nice one. As a fellow combatant, I admire the skill and am jealous that you managed to land one on his precious face."

Andrew is _confusing_ , but David gleans one true thing from his tangle of words.

"He told you?" David would have thought Cook would continue the lie, that he ran into a door, that he forgot to duck a low hanging branch, _anything_ but admit that David had swung at him - and hit.

Andrew snorts.

"He comes home looking like _that?_ I have to know if I need to kick someone's ass or shake somebody's hand."

It's a little hard to imagine Andrew kicking - well, beating anyone up, but David smiles back weakly when Andrew grins widely at him over his shoulder as he leads the way into the house.

"Oh shit, Andrew, I told you to let me get the door!" Cook calls from somewhere in the house, his voice anxious.

"Relax, it's not as if we're _strangers._ "

Andrew hooks an arm around David's shoulders as if to prove his point, and David can't help but stiffen automatically. Andrew doesn't seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn't _care_ , because he practically drags David into the kitchen where Cook is serving steaming hot piles of pasta out of little take out boxes and onto clean white plates.

Cook looks up when they come in and he smiles, wide and bright and David hates the way his heart squeezes at the sight.

"I'm sorry," Cook apologizes, gesturing to his brother, "I didn't hear the door bell - did you knock? - or else I would have let you in, instead of Igor over there."

David wrinkles his nose a little as Andrew hunches his back and lopes awkwardly to where Cook is standing, badly imitating a disfigured assistant to a mad scientist.

"Brains, I need brainsss!" Andrew hisses, drawing his hand up in a claw. Cook swats at it dismissively.

"Yeah, you do," he deadpans, and smirks when Andrew pouts and straightens up, giving up the act. "Now go be a good Igor and take these to the table."

Cook offers him the plates loaded with food, and Andrew shrugs, turning obediently to set the table.

David feels so out of place. It's like watching a scene in a movie instead of being in it. He feels like an outsider and realizes that he doesn't belong here, and what was he thinking, accepting that stupid invitation to dinner? His hands suddenly feel heavy, and he looks down at the wine bottle he's clutching, feeling foolish.

"Oh," Cook says, noticing it as well.

David lifts it awkwardly and smiles a little.

"This is for you? I didn't really - I didn't want to come empty handed, and I know how much you - how much you guys like red wine, but I really don't know _anything_ about wine, or like, about alcohol at all, so I ended up talking to the guy in the shop for a really long time, and it was kind of expensive - not that it's a problem! – but hopefully that means it’s, you know, _good_ \- so I hope you like it?"

He flushes, embarrassed. He probably sounds like an _idiot_. Cook just stares at him for a long minute, a slight smile on his face, before he steps forward and takes the bottle gingerly from David's hands.

"Thank you," he says, his eyes roving over the elegant label on the bottle. "You didn't have to go to all that trouble. I'm not exactly a wine connoisseur myself, but I'm eager to try this. Should we open it tonight?"

He lifts his head and he meets David's eyes.

"Oh - oh no, you don't have to - I mean, you can do whatever you'd like, I just thought it might be - might be nice," David stutters out, not wanting to sit there in misery as Cook and his brother open his gift and drink it and like it _or worse_ , hate it, while he just - sits there, because he doesn't drink wine.

"I think we will," Cook says with a wicked grin, and David groans to himself, following Cook reluctantly to the table.

"We're having Italian tonight," Cook explains after gesturing for David to take his seat while he looks for a wine corker. "I hope that's alright. Don't worry, I didn't cook a thing."

"It looks great," David replies automatically, carefully taking in the beautifully set table, with the tablecloth, and the decorative bowl of fruit set in the middle. Cook clearly went to a lot of trouble to make this nice for him, and he's swamped with a weird mixture of flattery, annoyance and guilt.

"Can we eat now?" Andrew asks, whining as he takes his seat, leaving Cook to take the seat across from David.

Cook rolls his eyes, leaning over to fill his and Andrew's wine glasses up.

"Go ahead."

Even though David really only says a prayer before a meal when he's with his family at home, it still feels weird to just - start eating. Andrew has already begun eating though, and Cook finally sits down and picks up his fork, which alleviates some anxiety that had coiled up in David. He relaxes a little and glances at his plate before starting to eat, this entire situation feeling far too familiar and easy to him. He’s not entirely sure how to start talking, and for the first few minutes it’s eerily quiet, just the clink of utensils on plates to fill up the silence.

But if they can count on Andrew for anything, it’s filling awkward silences. He launches into a story about his boss, and then keeps talking and cracking jokes until David is giggling into his pasta, and the ice seems to have been officially broken. Cook and Andrew both rave about the wine, and David ducks his head modestly, though all three of them know that _none_ of them know anything about truly great wine. David is a little off-balance, probably because the longer dinner goes, Cook keeps throwing him more and more fond glances, the kind that linger after he looks away, and warm David to the bone.

Andrew reclines in his chair and smiles at the two of them, shoving his empty plate a few inches back. 

“Look at this, remember the last time we had dinner together like this?” He asks, a bright, wicked gleam in his eyes. 

“Andrew, come on now-“ Cook says, trying to head him off, but it’s too late. Andrew’s grinning like a cat that has the canary cornered – and David is quite sure he and Cook are the canary. 

“It wasn’t just the three of us, it was everyone over for a nice dinner, and you two kept throwing each other these _looks_ -“ Andrew laughs, and David shifts uncomfortably, because he _does_ remember the last time they all got together for dinner. 

“An-drew,” Cook grits out, sitting up straighter in his chair and leaning menacingly towards his brother. Andrew doesn’t notice, or if he does, doesn’t seem to care, because he just points a finger at David, who flinches subtly.

“Halfway through the night you two _disappeared_ , like magic, and Andy found you fifteen minutes later making out in the hall closet, like horny teenagers. You couldn’t even make it upstairs!” 

Andrew laughs and David blushes hotly at the memory of that night. They hadn’t exactly been discreet in the heat of their passion, he supposes, and it’s embarrassing to think back on it now, though all the memories of that night are warm and familiar and _good_. He can feel Cook’s gaze on him, and he’s afraid to look over, afraid of what he might see on Cook’s face. But when he does finally give in and peek at his face, there’s only heat and longing and something darker and more intense that makes him shiver. He can’t look away, feels trapped by Cook like he always is, and loses track of what’s going on around him until Andrew coughs loudly.

“I see nothing has changed,” Andrew murmurs with a shit-eating grin. He lifts his eyebrows pointedly at them, and then pushes away from the table and gets up. 

“I’ll help with the dishes,” David says automatically, rising as Andrew does, assuming he’ll be clearing the plates. But Cook stands up too, and makes a sharp, inexplicable hand gesture towards his brother. 

“No, here – let me. Andrew you can – you can go.” 

“Thanks bro, you make me feel so wanted,” Andrew ducks the swat Cook aims at his head, and practically bolts out of the room, leaving David and Cook alone. David blinks at him slowly, and then starts gathering up the plates left on the table on autopilot, bringing them into the kitchen. If nothing else, it will keep his hands busy and his mind off of Cook. 

_This was a bad idea_ , he scolds himself and he runs the water in the sink and starts scraping the leftover food into the garbage disposal. He should have never accepted Cook’s dinner offer. He should have never answered his phone when Cook called in the first place. 

And yet when Cook walks up behind him and puts his hands on David’s arms, stilling his motions, David doesn’t pull away. He leans on the sink edge and closes his eyes, smelling Cook’s soap and the product he puts in his hair, soaking in the warmth of his body pressing so close. He doesn’t walk away when Cook rests his chin on David’s shoulder, and even sighs a little when Cook nuzzles in closer and rubs his stubble against David’s neck. It feels so good to melt into the embrace, like traveling through time back to when things were good between them, and David was in _love_.

He doesn’t resist when Cook pulls back, just a little, and tilts his face to the side. Cook’s fingers run along his cheek gently, reverently, stroking his hair with infinite care before trailing down into the collar of his shirt and petting the back of his neck. He touches David like he knows him best. He _does_ know David best. 

When Cook finally leans down and kisses him, David kisses back, soft and sweet, with none of the desperation he thought he’d have. David’s hands are still wet and soapy from the dishes, but he still turns in Cook’s embrace and holds onto the front of his shirt for balance, letting Cook press him hard against the sink. Arousal spikes through his body, adrenaline and excitement chasing each other in closed circuit loops through his nervous system as fireworks go off behind his eyelids. He hasn’t kissed Cook in so _long_ , he’d almost forgotten the effect it had on him. 

“This is a bad idea,” he mumbles when Cook eases off. He licks his lips. He licks _Cook’s_ lips. Cook groans and kisses him again, and this time the swooping in his stomach is a little more urgent, and Cook’s arms tighten reflexively around him as if to prevent him from running. 

“Ha!” 

They break apart in a flurry, turning in tandem to stare at Andrew who was hovering in the door to the kitchen, his eyes bright and triumphant.

“See? I knew it! Nothing has changed! Put you two in a room together and you can’t keep your hands off each other,” Andrew says smugly. He seems to be taking a lot of joy in their liaison, David thinks hazily to himself.

“Andrew, get _out_ ,” Cook hurls a sponge at his little brother, who just ducks and hoots and then scurries out of the room, shouting ‘I knew it!’ as he goes. 

By the time Cook turns back to David, he’s trying to steel his resolve, already shaking his head when Cook cups his neck in one big hand. 

“No, Cook – we aren’t going to do this. I don’t know what happened – I don’t know why I came over, but we both know this isn’t a good idea. I should just leave.” He looks up into Cook’s eyes, and frowns at the softness he finds there. 

“Okay,” Cook murmurs gently, his thumb making small circles on David’s skin. He doesn’t move away, and David can see the intent on his face, sees that Cook isn’t just about to let him leave. He takes a deep breath. 

"I like hurting you," David says in a hushed voice, the confession thick and heavy as he reaches up and runs his fingertips gently over Cook's fading bruise. 

"I think we like hurting each other." Cook smiles sadly at him, pressing his palm flat over David's chest, right where his heart lay, as if he can heal the hurt he's caused with only a touch. They both know it isn’t that easy, and they both know that they’ll just keep on hurting each other.

He leans down to kiss David anyway. 

David knows he’s lost before their lips even meet, and surrenders the fight as he kisses back, aching and wanting and weak to David Cook, like he always has been.


End file.
